


Challenge

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Canon Queer Character of Color, Canon Queer Relationship, Creampie, Cute Immortal Husbands, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Time, Immortal Husbands, Italy, Joe Is a Romantic About Nicky Because Duh, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Making Out, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Riding, Romance, The Author Striving for Historical Accuracy and Hoping for the Best, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25223707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: The first time is a challenge written in every line of Nicolò's body above him: a shine in his eyes, a quirk to his lips, the twitch of a muscle which gives the tension he's hiding away. He smiles down at Yusuf as if to sayI've got you.He does.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 154
Kudos: 2332





	Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> I have only watched the film once yesterday and I have 0% knowledge of the comics.

The first time is a challenge written in every line of Nicolò's body above him: a shine in his eyes, a quirk to his lips, the twitch of a muscle which gives the tension he's hiding away. He smiles down at Yusuf as if to say _I've got you_.

He does.

*

Their cottage outside Roma consists of a room barely large enough for one person, much less two grown men. They were little more than boys when they first rode out to fight their Gods' war, but that was years ago, too many "deaths" since to adequately count.

He remembers well when he stopped drawing his sword upon setting his sights on Nicolò; it was the same time Nicolò's hand didn't move to draw his own longsword, though Yusuf has never been able to tell whether one was reacting to the other's non-reaction, or whether it was a mutual decision to leave Death behind, at least for a little while. In the end, what would be the point to strike down upon one who cannot die; Nicolò may have thought identically to him.

The cottage is remote even from the nearest village. They keep two goats for milking and a rich garden for carrots, parsnips and olives. The ornamental lemon tree in their front yard becomes a fruiting tree by accident, but, on hot summer days, the shaded spot beneath it is shared by them both from the very start.

Their arms brush against each other by accident, too. Broken words in two languages as different as the two of them are—or used to be. More than speaking in tongues at each other, they gesture these days to communicate. But the simple things are easy to deduce. A look turns into a word. "Sì," Nicolò breathes, the word catching in his throat before he spits it out at Yusuf from close enough Yusuf can smell the scent of the lemon rinds he nibbled on after his morning meal.

Soon enough, the sun will burn too hot for even the lemon tree to shadow them where they sit at the base of its trunk. Rising to his feet first, Nicolò leads them into the house.

Whatever routine either might have anticipated, Yusuf doubts either could have foreseen the kisses. First as tentative comfort in the dark after one's particularly harsh night terror woke the other up as well, then as a mindless distraction in lieu of drawing on each other during a wordless argument.

Both have strong bodies, kept so by housework and garden work and the daily trek to and fro the village to barter milk and cheese for meat and bread. As such, Yusuf can lie back on their mattress at the edge of the room to allow Nicolò to blanket him, his weight heavy on his thick thighs. Nicolò's arms encircle his shoulders less for balance, his knees on the outside of his hips surely enough for that, than to draw himself close to mouth at his temples, at his cheek, seeking out kisses without asking for them outright.

Yusuf gives him whatever he wants. It should worry him, scare him, that already he gives him whatever he wants, whatever he likes. The ripest lemon from their tree, and the first cup of fresh milk in the morning, and the best meat they can exchange for their own household goods. He cuts into the freshest loaf of bread ahead of Nicolò, but passes him the entire thing for him to choose how much he craves of it before he returns his scraps to Yusuf. But, most of all, he's generous with his kisses.

He aches for them too much, but he can't deny him. They must have started a year ago or more, but he's yet to tire of them. If anything, he grows more impatient for more, deeper, desperate to delve inside the longer he goes without during the day. Nicolò lets him thrust his tongue in and lick behind his teeth and along his own. The moans come forth like water during a thunderstorm. Their noses bump a couple of times until Yusuf finally sinks his fingers in Nicolò's hair to guide his head to the side, his mouth opening up wider like this, his jaw cracking with the pressure, but the harsh groan accompanying the gesture is encouragement enough to keep going.

Growing hard against each other is normal now. Feeling each other is normal from this close. Yusuf's fingers grip tighter in Nicolò's hair anyway before he slips out of his grasp to stand. In the hot summer heat engulfing Roma and its villages and its countryside, loose linen trousers and a thin shirt are easy to discard without a chill creeping in. Watching Nicolò's body reveal itself is like an enemy torturing him with single drops of water after days of thirst.

They have not. Not _this_. Not yet. Inevitable as it surely must be, Yusuf hasn't allowed himself to have this, not because God wouldn't want him to lose his long-held purity like this; he hasn't thought about what God might want for a very long time. No, he hasn't allowed it because once would not be just once. If he allows himself this, then he will crave it always. But Nicolò's blue-green eyes are all dark pupil above him. The insides of his thighs are greasy with the candle tallow Yusuf saw him fiddle with before coming outside to sit beneath the lemon tree earlier. His prick is hard and reddened like ripe fruit, shiny at the tip.

Yusuf's trousers are hardly a barrier beneath Nicolò's impatient fingers. They mouth at each other, barely kissing, while Nicolò straddles him once more. Leaking embarrassingly, his skin alive with a fever he hasn't ever felt before, Yusuf feels as if he should say a prayer, but that's a ridiculous thought to have at a time like this. He watches Nicolò grasp at him, and he hisses from this first touch. He watches him steady his grip and sink down without further preamble, a rough keen ripping itself from the back of Nicolò's throat.

His heart stops for an instant, then rabbits inside his chest hard enough it might break his ribs on its way out. Yusuf doesn't dare close his eyes.

Harsh whispers. "Sì. Sì, così." His thighs tremble and his hips thrust down in jagged rocking movements Yusuf feels in his _throat_. He palms desperately at Nicolò's hip bones, the inward curve of his waist, and thrusts up instinctively. He may not know what he's doing, the theory and mechanics of it, neither of them does, but their bodies were made for this, they know the rhythm of this dance.

Nicolò is relentless. A warrior on his steed riding into battle. He moans and he thrashes and he impales himself over and over again until he wrings Yusuf out inside him. Finally, Yusuf does close his eyes tightly, at the end of his tether, his hips rising from the mattress to push in as far as he can go. His seed drips back into the hairs at the base of his prick as Nicolò thrusts desperately against Yusuf's belly to make his own mess between them, all the while mouthing little kisses at the corner of Yusuf's lips, sipping on his ragged breaths.

*

Later, the challenge returns. Yusuf believes he reads the words Nicolò means to speak in the lingering touches, the feverish looks.

_Again._

_Yours._

_Always._

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and leave kudos, or just comment, or just leave kudos, or do neither. Whatever you're comfortable with. I'm just glad you're here and I hope you're keeping safe out there.
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


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